Stalemate
by Aurora18021
Summary: What happens when Kyra the merc decides to get the biggest payday who just so happens to be someone familiar... M for language, postPitch Black, but Kyra/Jack never became a slave
1. Chapter One

Stalemate

The only sound that fills her ears is her heartbeat and the howling wind. With careful steps, a dance of sorts, she manages to move a little closer. The knife in her hand molds itself into her clenched fist, the fine muscles in her wrist poised.

So close, she thinks, her heart beating a little faster.

They are locked, a draw of wills. Stalemate. The minute, the second either one of them moves a hairsbreadth, chaos will inevitably ensue.

She silently swears at herself. How had she gotten to this moment? How had they gotten to this moment?

Her knuckles turn white around the knife. They have been waiting for a while now, she's lost track of how long, but she can't feel any of her digits anymore. Cold puffs expel in front of her, and she shivers.

Three mil, she remembers with disdain. Who wouldn't turn down a payday like that one? Certainly not her, certainly not the crew.

But the problem isn't the job itself, but who the job is. She's been too cocky, thinking that if she knew him, maybe she'd get the big payday.

So this is how she's landed on this frozen tundra of a godforsaken planet playing hide-n-seek with one of the biggest assholes in history.

Asshole Hall of Fame, if she recalls correctly.

She thinks she almost hears him shift, but there is no one way to tell without moving herself, so she stays put, crouching lower to the ground.

"Five years."

For a second, she considers that she had accidently spilled her thoughts out loud, but it wasn't her voice. It's too coarse and too deep.

She refuses to acknowledge him with a reply. Instead she inches her foot forward soundlessly.

"Did you come here to kill me, kid?"

She bristles at the word 'kid', and had to clamp her mouth shut so she didn't blurt out a retort. She slides her hand down her calf to her boot.

"Never thought you'd run with these pussies."

He's trying to goad her, she realizes, albeit slowly. He's trying to distract her. The revelation feeds the burning anger in her, and she frees the cold metal shape from her shit-kicker boots.

"Why don't you come out and play." He's taunting her, now, using a playful tone.

Fuck, she really wants to jam a bullet into his brain and a knife in his gut.

The impersonal metal of the gun is smooth in her palm. She's never been a big fan of guns and bullets. It made everything too cold. If there's one thing that he's taught her, it's that real killers use their hands and a shiv.

Funny, after five years of hating him, they have more in common than ever. A pair of killers.

As if reading her mind, he speaks again. "You into killin' now, kid? Guess the holy man was right."

Swallowing at the mention of Imam, she loads the gun and it makes an audible click. Unless he's lost his touch, there's no way didn't recognize that noise.

And he did. "A gun, Jack? Come on, where's the fun in that?"

He used her name. Her old name. It shouldn't bother her so much, but it does and she feels her throat tighten, an odd spasm she hasn't had in years.

A silence coats the air again, dropping the temperature further if possible. So close…she thinks again, and wonders how much longer he will drag this sad charade on. And how much longer she'll let him.

Inhaling softly, she edges another inch, her toe nearing the end of the cave. She has to act soon, she thinks feverishly, before this game drives her insane.

"How many, huh Jackie?"

Gritting her teeth, she tries to stop her reply, but it tumbles out. "Kyra. My name is Kyra."

He laughs this time, a rumble of thunder. "Finally got bored of being a boy, Jack?"

She closes her eyes, breathing deeply. All the years of training to keep calm and in control are rapidly disappearing into the cold, cold air. She desperately whishes she could take back her words, because now she's given him a crumb and he'll never let go.

"Jack? You still there?" He calls out, mocking her. It's another chance to use the name of a dead girl.

"Shit, kid, ya gotta come out some time."

She welcomes the nickname, anything over Jack. It helps her regain her control, and she lifts the gun slowly. This has to end, she thinks grimly. Another step, so cautiously placed, and she turns her body and aims the gun.

A whirl of muscle and leather slams into her, knocking the breath out of her lungs. A hand pins her wrists forcefully onto the rock, and the gun—her only hope—falls to the snow.

His other hand curls around her neck, squeezing tight.

"Not bad," he comments casually, yanking her up so her feet dangle above the ground.

A sputtering choke escapes her lips as she twists and bucks to get away. How could she have been so stupid?

"But," he continues, removing his hand from her throat to quickly run it over her coat and down her thigh. "You need a little more practice." He easily finds the knife in her other boot and tosses it aside.

"You asshole," she spits out, her throat rough, "this isn't some goddamn game—" He squeezes her neck again, cutting off her words and breath.

She gasps, inhaling precious air when his hand relaxes a fraction, then releases.

"What's the bounty?" He questions, now checking under her coat, under her—

"Hey!" She snarls, "Fuck off!" She wrenches her body away, flailing her legs.

He captures them between his, a rock-hard vise. "Don't make me fuckin' ask again, Jackie." His hand slides to the small of her back, to the tiny knife tucked in her waistband. Instead of dropping it, he holds it to her neck, pressed along her jugular.

"Thought you liked the sweet spot," she hisses at him. "Fourth lumbar down—"

He applies a little more pressure, drawing a thin ribbon of blood. "Answer me." He pulls back, just enough for her to speak.

"Three mil," she grumbles, twisting her legs as a test. They barely twitch.

"Interesting." The knife nicks her skin again and a drop of blood trickles down the curve of her neck. "Who're you runnin' with?"

"Nobody you know," she replies, evading names and details.

There is a pregnant pause before he asks, "Will anyone come for you?"

"No," she answers quickly. Too quickly, she figures out with a cringe as his lips form a thin line.

"So that's a yes," he says pensively. The goggles block her from reading his eyes, but she can tell he's thinking. He did it a lot on the ship they used to escape the horrible planet, and hero worship means paying attention to the minutiae.

In the distance, she suddenly hears the echoes of name being shouted across the icy terrain. Relief seeps through her like a shot of whiskey.

"How soon do you think they'll be here?" He asks, sounding vaguely amused. "Soon enough?"

She gulps. Hard. Her name sounds out again, louder this time. It's now or never, she thinks.

His head is moving closer and his hands grip her aching hands tighter.

Her heart is racing painfully in her chest. Dying is not really what she had on her mind when she took the job. She wonders if she can yank her wrists out or distract him with something temporarily. A single mistake and she could try and escape.

His lips are now at her ear, and it takes her a moment to realize he's whispering something. "…next time, Jack."

He steps back, releasing her from his captivity. Before she can grab the gun or at least give him a well-deserved kick in the groin, he runs and leaps off the edge of the cliff.

She can hear her crew shouting her name along with a few choice expletives. Her breath is coming in harsh pants, her heart like a jackhammer. Her wrists will be encircled with bruises, along with her thighs, and there will be a thin line on her neck for a long time.

But she's alive.

And for all the gold in the universe, she can't figure out why.

(A/N: A little different than my other two, so let me know what you think. Maybe I'll continue this one, but I dont' know...I seem to favor the one-shots.)


	2. Chapter Two

Stalemate

Chapter Two

"You're still thinkin' 'bout that fucker, aren't you?"

Kyra turns to the pilot, Anise, who has a disapproving look etched into her face. A single red eyebrow is arched, waiting expectantly for a reply.

"No," Kyra murmurs. She subconsciously touches the bandage on her neck, staring out at the star-speckled space.

Anise snorts delicately, swerving in her seat to check the controls. She reaches up to flick a switch before sitting lotus-style in her chair, returning her attention to Kyra.

"You," she tells her friend, "are a bad liar."

Kyra rolls her eyes and pulls out the tiny knife, that only a few hours ago had been pressed against her neck, and begins to fiddle with it.

"Ignore whatever Jason and Zeke say. You tried. It didn't work out. Big deal. There're plenty other jobs out there for a nice wad of cashy money."

Kyra looks down at the knife, watching it glint in the subtle light. "I screwed up, Anise."

A quiet lingers for a moment before Anise responds, "Happens to the best of us, Kyra. You think I got this good by never fuckin' up a landing? In school, I tore off a wing of a practice transport ship."

At this, Kyra gives a ghost of a smile, but it fades quickly. "I shouldn't have picked the job," she mutters to herself, but the pilot hears it.

"What'd you mean? For three mil, I'd trade in my big toe." Anise shrugs casually.

Tentatively, she divulges a little more. "I knew him. The job, I mean."

"Really? You knew Richard B. Riddick?" Anise gives her an appraising look. "Ex-boyfriend?" Her tone holds an unabashed curiosity.

"No," Kyra answers with a shake of her head. "God no. I met him a long time ago. I guess you could say he saved my life."

Slightly interested, Anise cocks her eyebrow again. "When did Kyra the badass merc ever need saving?"

Kyra leans back, resting her feet on console. "When I was young and stupid."

Anise laughs loudly. "Babe, we were all young and stupid. What'd you do?" She sinks her body into the chair, waiting for the story.

"A ship crash, actually. He got me and a holy man off the planet," Kyra replies, keeping her face carefully blank.

With a guffaw, the pilot shakes her head at her. "Riddick? A savior? Something tells me there more to that story."

Kyra opens her mouth to deflect her, to hide the truth, to avoid rehashing what happened on the terrifying planet, but she stops when Jason and Zeke stomp into the room.

"We on course?" Jason asks Anise with a surly look that Kyra knows has nothing to do with the pilot.

"Yep," Anise pops the 'p'. "All set for Greenleaf. The cyro-sleep's prepped, too."

Ignoring Kyra, Zeke reaches over her to engage the containers. "They're open," he announces gruffly and leaves the room without another word.

Cyro-sleep.

Even now the words send an icy shiver down her spine. It's her flaw, but when she can, she avoids going under.

Unfortunately, Greenleaf is too far away, and it's easier to succumb to the autopilot and use the cyro-sleep chamber.

It's always the same though. In the last few seconds before everything becomes blissfully dark, she fights it. A buried animalistic instinct urges her to stay awake, but she never does.

"Let's go," Jason's gruff voice breaks through her rumination. He gives her a cold look before holding a hand out to Anise, a gesture of predilection. Anise shoots a look between Jason and Kyra, hesitant to move.

It's that look that kindles Kyra's anger and she stand up, her gazing boring into his. "Something you wanna say to me?"

Jason presses his lips into a slim line, and fury makes his muscles twitch. Without responding, he clomps off to the cyro-chambers.

"Jesus," Anise mutters, and then tries, "he'll get over it." She unfurls herself from her chair and briefly pats Kyra's shoulder. Her slim figure disappears around the corner, fiery hair winking.

A sigh bubbles from her lips as she lolls her neck back, hands on her hips. She doesn't completely blame them for their anger. In their minds, she let a multi-million dollar job slip right through her fingers.

If only they knew, she thinks, acknowledging the irony, she's the one who managed to slip through _his_ fingers.

With her life intact.

But since then, she keeps seeing him, tiny blips of her memory in pieces. His muscles, his neck, his face. Her tiny reflection in his dark goggles.

Thank god, she thinks with relief. No one dreams in cyro-sleep.

Kyra walks down the hall to the cyro-chambers where Zeke is already out, and Anise and Jason are strapped in.

Clearly, from the look in Jason's eyes, he refuses to go under until she's securely fastened. It irks her that in one day the trust has evaporated.

With the utmost composure, Kyra hooks herself up and snaps the straps in place. The chamber encloses her, and she sees Jason, out of the corner of her eye, close his.

In a matter of minutes, her limbs feel like lead weights. Her eyes flutter and a low exhale slips out. She can feel it happening like clockwork. Her mind presses back against the sleep, and she shifts restlessly.

Suddenly, she's back in the cold cave, jagged rock digging into her spine. His body is hovering near hers, his lips at her ear, grazing the skin.

Then, it comes to her, a flash before the black oblivion.

_"Remember, you started this. Be ready for next time, Jack."_

A/N: let me know what you think!)


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Dirt swirls around her boot-encased feet as she steps off the ship and onto Greenleaf. Contrary to its name, the planet is barren, dusty and flat with miles of scorching sun.

Kyra's eyes shift watchfully as she hoists a bag over her shoulder.

_"Be ready for next time, Jack."_

The words are burned into her brain. She can't escape from them any more than she can stop breathing.

She heads towards the station shop, intent on finding some food. Strands of her dark blonde hair tangle across her face as a hot wind stirs the air. She sneezes, a sharp noise, when the dust tickles her nose.

As she nears the building, she spots Jason and Anise talking to the control center looking agitated. Neither of them had said anything about problems on the ship, which means they are hiding it from her. More than two months may have passed, but the tension is as fresh as if it was yesterday that they were on the frozen ice cube of a planet.

Can't stay on with a crew without trust, she thinks, a sad realization dawning on her.

Fuck.

But maybe, she ponders, it's for the best. If she wants to stay hidden, she has to ditch the crew sooner or later. And sooner seems safer. Sooner means she can stay two steps ahead.

The doors slide open and she wanders in, eyeing her choices. Grabbing sandwich and filling her water, Kyra loops back around to the register.

Placing the items down, the computer beeps twice, and she takes out her card and swipes it, ringing up the purchase.

Without bothering to turn around, Kyra mumbles, "Hey."

Anise moves so she is walking in stride with her. "Listen, we're staying for a couple of days."

"That's cool," Kyra replies, taking a mouthful of her sandwich. She glances over at her, taking in her skintight pants and low cut tank-top. Three tiny circular bruises dot her neck.

It takes her a few seconds to register Anise's flushed cheeks and barely concealed grin.

"Jason or Zeke?" Kyra asks bluntly.

The blush deepens. "Jason."

Rolling her eyes, Kyra tries to look unaffected and unsurprised. "I have to pick up a few things in town. When're we scheduled to take off?" She's careful to say 'we' instead of 'you'.

"Exactly 53 hours," Anise replies promptly, her blush fading away.

Kyra nods slowly. "You guys staying on-ship?"

"Yeah," Anise answers, almost quiet. "Zeke's staying with some friends. What about you?"

Shrugging, Kyra tosses her wrapper in a bin. "Might find a place. Take a breather."

"Okay," Anise looks relieved, tension in her shoulders slacking. "I'll see you back on the ship. Remember, 53 hours." She points her finger at her, a mock scolding.

"Got it," Kyra replies, nodding. "Later." She waits until Anise is out of sight before circling back to the main station.

Staring up at the lists, she is instantly frustrated with nothing is leaving today. "What the fuck?" She asks no one, frowning. It's too late in the day to expect many more incoming ships, which means she has to find lodging for the night.

Running a hand through her disheveled hair, Kyra sighs. She needs either a discreet place or a crowded one. A place no one will think of looking for her.

She readjusts her bag, and heads out the door into the town. It's fairly small and plain, but a planet like this has underground places. After all, it's nearing 30 Celsius and it's the middle of winter.

Kyra stops along the way at a water station and refills her canteen, eyeing the manager.

"You know a good place to stay?" she asks the girl.

With a puzzled look and a long silence, the girl answers, "Yes_. La Casa Rosa._"

"Where is it?" Kyra asks. She caps her bottle, waiting for the reply.

"Down the road. On the right," the girl tells her after a moment. Her lips are pursed in frustration or annoyance.

"Thanks," Kyra says with a jerk of her head. Swigging from the canteen, she follows the directions to a worn but cared-for building. It actually looks more like a box of dusty mud, but someone has taken the time to add decorative touches and a nice wooden door.

Kyra pushes the door open and is greeted with pleasantly cooler air. Her overheated skin soaks up the cold as she walks to the front desk.

"A room, please. One night," she asks with the nicest smile she can muster.

"Name?" the man asks in a monotone voice.

"Jacqueline Thibodoux," she replies, a bitter taste lingering in her mouth as she says the words. It's the only name she hates more than 'Jack', but no one will look for her under that name.

She hands him her old card, idly wondering how much money is on it. Her foot taps, a rapid tattoo, and the man gives her a pointed look.

Forcibly stopping her foot, Kyra shoots him another half-hearted smile that only curls one side of her lips.

"Here's your key. Room 5." The man hands her a slim plastic card with an etching of a rose on it.

Taking it, Kyra follows a long hallway to a metal door with a small slit where a handle would be. She slides the card in. It pops out a half a second later with a faint beep, and the door swings open.

Dropping her bag at the foot of the queen-sized bed, Kyra examines the Spartan room. It has the basic necessities, and that pleases her. She never was one for overdone luxuries. Another door reveals a simple but clean bathroom.

Kyra is suddenly aware of her dirt and sweat streaked skin, her gnarly hair and her dirty clothes. Stripping the offending garments off, she turns the water on, entering her desired temperature.

After a couple of seconds, she steps under the tepid flow of water. Tilting her head back, she scrubs at her hair with the hotel shampoo and conditioner until it feels like silk under her fingers.

Then she uses the soap to scrub off the traces of grease and dirt coating her skin. With her face angled to the spray of water, she lets it sluice over her, trying to wash away her tension.

She finally opens her eyes, and turns the water off. Goosebumps tickle her skin, and she grabs one of the towels hanging nearby. Its material is a synthetic mixture made for wicking away water.

She towel dries her hair and wraps it around her body before exiting the bathroom. In her bag she manages to find a large shirt she doesn't remember buying. Something falls and taps her toe, and she glances down to see a small chip.

Picking it up, Kyra recognizes the hacker chip that Zeke gave her a while back. It basically left her tracks untraceable in a database, a useful tool when hacking into government files.

Spotting the computer, Kyra wonders what has changed in two months. She has only been out of cyro-sleep for less than a week, and it suddenly occurs to her that _he_ could have gotten a lot closer to finding her than she knows.

She slides the chip in and quickly finds herself in her old ship's database. The encryption is easy to bypass since she did help Zeke put it together, and she reads the latest jobs. It takes only a moment to spot his name.

Only this time the payment is near five million. Her brow creases, and she tries to find any recent information. His last known location is only a couple weeks from here, she realizes. Her heart beat picks up as a new insight forms in her mind.

He's coming for her, she can feel it.

According to the report, he's already racked up two more killings—both mercs.

That's how he survives, she thinks as she clicks out of the screen. He kills mercs so he can have his freedom.

And she's just another merc he's gotta ghost.

(A/N: Let me know what you think! And don't worry Riddick'll be back soon. By the way, 30C is about 86F )


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Plopping her bag at her feet, Kyra leans forward, examining the ships boarded. A few private family ships, a couple of large transports and a few miscellaneous ones.

"Ya lookin' for somethin'?"

Kyra faces the speaker, a greasy mechanic. "A ship."

The man snorts. "Good one, lady. Anythin' special?"

"Preferably one leaving today," Kyra answers, trying to appear casual.

"Nothin' takin' passangers 'cept a fellow who stopped for fuelin'," the mechanic offers, a rare kindness.

"What's the name?"

"Jack Sykes. Ship's name is _Opaline_," the mechanic told her, "old ship, but sturdy. Bit like my wife." He laughs, too high and too loud for his appearance.

Kyra manages a smile and small chuckle. "Sounds good. Which station's it docked in?"

"Sector 5B 223," the mechanic answers, "just down the way." He jerks his head behind him.

"Thanks," Kyra says graciously, picking up his bag.

"Sure," the mechanic says back and resumes looking up at the listing.

She gives the man a short wave before following his directions. The sector is busy, throngs of people going in and out. In a way, this soothes her; she's less likely to be noticed.

Kyra stops in front of 223, looking up at the ship. The mechanic is right, she thinks with interest. It's one of those old ships with thousands of nooks and crannies for hiding goods. She doesn't do much of that kind of work, but it often coincides with her jobs.

A small screen at the dock tells her that the owner, Mr. Sykes, is in the ship. She steps forward, peering into the dark entrance. Funny, she wonders why the owner hasn't bothered to turn any ramp lights or door lights.

Shrugging her shoulders back, Kyra tries to shift herself into a kinder, softer persona. Over the years, she has learned to subtly morph her body language and words to fit into a person's expectations.

"Hello?" she calls out into the obscurity, taking a careful step.

No one responds, and she thinks that the docking computer is wrong. Maybe he forgot to change his status. Or maybe he can't hear her from outside.

"Mr. Sykes?" Another step and she's hovering in the doorway.

Again no one answers. Impetuously, she decides to walk in anyway and look around. If she finds him or he finds her, she can explain easily enough, and this gives her an unobstructed chance to explore _Opaline_.

It's too dark, she notes. Inside the ship, it seems like any light has been extinguished.

Something isn't right. The thought slams into her and every instinct in her body rebels as she takes another step into the darkness.

"Hello?" Her inquiry is too soft and quiet this time, like her voice doesn't want to be found. Spinning on her heel, Kyra prepares to bolt, ready to escape out the door.

A shadow snaps out from the dim, and with a loud bang, shuts the door, enclosing them in utter darkness.

"Wasn't sure if the mechanic would actually find you."

She knows the voice like her own. He found her. Again.

His stupid pseudonym, Jack Sykes, is a mockery of her, she realizes with a sickening lurch in her stomach. He set out the simplest of all traps, and she practically handed herself to him on a silver platter.

Kyra's heart smashes against her chest deafeningly. Her eyes move wildly, struggling for even a sliver of light. She can hear him moving closer, a soft swish.

Shit, shit, shit. Why didn't she listen to her instincts the moment she stepped into the ship?

"Scared him shitless, I thought he'd pass out," he chuckles, "guess I shoulda paid him for his good work."

Blindly backing up, Kyra feels her bag slip from her shoulder and fall to the ground. He seems to follow her motion, because his massive hand grabs her bicep, curling in an iron grip.

"How'd you find me?" She manages, hating how weak her voice sounds. She's better and stronger than that.

"Easy," he says with another rumble. "Your pilot's messy. Leaves tracks when she don't have to."

Kyra refuses to rise to the taunt, letting it glide by. She edges her foot forward, trying to feel her surroundings. Her hands roam over the wall behind her. She finds nothing useful and her foot only collides into his bigger one.

He tugs her forward, hard enough for her body to lurch and tumble. She hisses at the sharp pain in her shoulder from the motion, and she rears back, wildly punching the dark in front of her.

If she aimed anywhere near him, he artfully dodged her fist. He laughs as she stumbles a little.

A hot, angry flush unfurls itself up her neck and into her cheeks. She is trapped and all she can do is fumble around like a pathetic toddler while he stands there, mocking.

"Cute," he comments, the mirth tangible in his voice. "You're not afraid, are you Jack?"

He's behind her now and his breath on the base of her neck. Her muscles tense and she turns her head, staring hard into the dark. She desperately wishes she could see, but nothing appears, just more darkness.

"Of course not," he answers for her. "Mercs're afraid of nothing. Ain't that right?"

He is in front of her again and this constant shifting is disorienting, unnerving. Her hand moves out to hit him but all she catches is air.

All of the sudden, a warm finger traces a line on her neck, and the shock makes her gasp and jump. She reaches up to grab his hand, but instead slaps her neck.

Under her palm, she feels a raised thin line. A line she knows is white as snow and trails five centimeters at an angle along her jugular. "Don't," she rasps, her hand still covering the scar.

"I have to ask," he says casually, "why aren't you with your crew? They're leaving soon."

She doesn't answer, just stands stoically with her hand on her neck, a useless shield. The wall digs into her spine and she is hit with an appalling sense of déjà vu.

She stares into the impenetrable darkness, trying to catch a glimpse of liquid silver and a shifting shadow.

"I told you, Jack, you started this," his voice is too close, "why don't you finish it?"

Gritting her teeth against the drowning sense of hopelessness, Kyra tries to think of any escape. "Why're you doing this, R—"

She cuts herself from saying his name to his face. She won't give him that crumb of satisfaction.

But he knows she won't, and she can practically feel the smirk forming on his lips. "Now that was interesting."

Kyra's heart picks up again. It's frustrating how badly she needs a slice of hope—a ray of sunshine. Literally.

There's a flashlight in the bag, she remembers and hope sparks in her mind.

It's near her, she thinks and concentrates on moving her toe a bit, feeling for a soft material that yields under shoe.

"Do I scare you, Jack? That why?" He asks, now stepping closer again.

"No," Kyra replies coolly, her foot finally touching her bag. He must be looking at her and doesn't notice her foot, she thinks with relief.

"Then say it," he demands, his face close to hers.

Kyra braces herself against the wall. "Riddick," she breathes and then her arm shoots out, clipping his nose hard enough to break. A kick to his solar plexus makes him stumble.

Falling to the ground, Kyra kicks again, jamming her foot in what feels like his neck. She rips her bag open and yanks everything out until she finds the wonderful feel of a long, plastic cylinder.

The flashlight.

Pressing the small switch, it flickers on, an explosion of light. She aims it at his face, straight into his molten silver eyes. He groans in pain, and she scrambles to her feet.

She has seconds, at most, before he regains his composure and kills her.

With her the flashlight in her white-knuckled hand, Kyra finds a stray pipe on the ground. She swings it hard enough that he collapses in a heap.

Her breath is coming in harsh pants, and Kyra looks down at his closed eyes and the laceration on his scalp that oozes blood.

She needs to secure him tightly. Then she can get her money. And her revenge.


	5. Chapter Five

Stalemate

Chapter Five

He wakes up sooner than she expects.

She is leaning close, checking his make-shift restraints again, when he groans. His eyes flutter and then squeeze shut against the lights.

"What're you doin'?" His words are slurred and slow.

She doesn't answer as she experimentally tugs the metal cuffs before backing away. The sleeper she gave him has dissipated three hours early. Even his internal systems are strong, she thinks with a smattering of envy.

"You drugged me," he says banally.

"Yes," she replies with equal detachment. He knows the truth anyway, lying would be pointless.

There is another pause, and Kyra busies herself with random scraps of metal she neglected to pick up before.

"We're flying," he speaks again conversationally. "They let you take off?"

She shrugs. "Easily enough."

"Gonna turn me in like the good merc you are?" He asks, shifting a little.

She keeps her eyes trained on every minuscule movement he makes. Again, she doesn't bother to answer. She recognizes that the question is rhetorical.

He grunts as he situates himself, so he appears to be sitting comfortably on the ground, hands behind his back. "So, where're we going?" He asks, like a polite child sitting in a classroom.

She snorts inwardly at the deceptive tone. She almost wants to tell him they are heading for the Solaria System with planets known for their intricate glass structures and bright suns. A place he would struggle in like a fish on land.

His head cocks, a small gesture of curiosity. "Where'd you go, Jack? After I dropped you and the Holy Man on New Mecca?"

She stares at him and he looks back at her like he can see her perfectly. "Nowhere special," she feigns indifference, "hitched with some mercs outta Lupus Five. They were assholes, so I ditched them."

"Holy Man said you spent time in the slam," he draws his words out slowly, as if savoring them.

Kyra bristles. Thoughts of the rank prison make her want to crawl out of her skin, and she tries not to show her discomfort. "Did he?"

"Yeah," he pauses before adding, "He was worried 'bout you." The sentence seems foreign coming from Riddick the Killer's lips.

"Was?" Kyra asks with her own worry tingeing her voice. This is a topic that temporarily suspends their hostile impasse.

"He gave me a letter," he tells her, his head tilting to his lap.

"A letter?"

He nods again to his lap. "Front left pocket."

Cautiously, eyes on his closed ones, Kyra leans forward and her hand edges to said pocket. Finger by finger, she slips her hand in, hyperaware of her position, her straddling his chained body.

It sends a shock of adrenaline—freeing and powerful. It isn't until she notices the lazy smirk on his mouth that she leaps off like she has been burned.

The paper, thin and elegant, fits in her palm, shaped like a crushed rose. Rigidly, she opens it, petal by petal, fold by fold. It takes a few smoothings to make it legible despite the smeared ink.

"They won't hold me forever," he tells her, not bluffing, just stating pure fact. He rattles the chains for affect.

The response 'I know' is perched on the tip of her tongue. The metal is thick, but structurally weak with hasty soldering. He's right. They won't last forever. They may not even last an hour.

"How long?"

"What?" She replies automatically, staring at the letter in her hand.

"How long did ya spend in the slam?" He asks, titling his head again.

"Not long," she says, a feeble lie. It was the longest year of her life. Running, hiding, sleeping in short spurts. Always with one eye open and knife close by.

"Right," he drawls sarcastically, "pigs flyin' out there too?"

Wordlessly, she leaves the room, ignoring his retort. Her gaze is focused on the letter, hungrily soaking up each stroke, each syllable.

Behind her, the rattling, clanging and banging begins.

(A/N: thanks for the reviews! here's the next chapter, so be kind and review--the good and the bad. I know it's shorter, but it gets longer)


	6. Chapter Six

Stalemate

Chapter Six

Kyra reads the letter once, twice, three times. It takes a while for her mind to wrap around the meaning behind the ink and words.

It is an apology, she thinks as she folds it carefully. A rambling, curving apology that he didn't bail her out of the slam when he could. That he didn't ignore her wishes and used the money, the mil, to get her out.

It also means that he's dead.

The clanging of the chains hasn't lessened over the last couple of minutes, and Kyra storms into the improvised prison, thrusting the letter into his face.

"Did you kill him?" She can barely mask her trembling anger.

"No," he answers calmly, stilling his arms, "someone got there first."

Kyra struggles to breathe like she has just run marathon up hill. Her pulse beats, a rapid tattoo of confusion and fury. "Why?"

He does it again, looks up at her like he can see her with his eyes shut. "He sent out a hit on me for a mil. Guess he isn't as holy as we thought."

"A hit on—" she breaks off with a soft, disbelieving chuckle. "He did that for me, you fucker. Because I _asked_ him to."

In a swift and jarring motion, he yanks hard on the chains so his arms are stretched to their breaking point, his face mere millimeters from hers. "Why'd you do that, kid? Wanted to see me dead? Or back behind bars where I belong? You're right, ya know. I am an animal. I kill. I should be in a cage," a creepy smile reveals startling white teeth, "But I'm not."

"Look pretty caged up to me," she tells him with confidence she doesn't think she has. "And I asked him to so I could find you. So I could—" She stops herself again.

The potent emotions she locked away years ago coil around her throat, squeezing tight. She'd been half-crazy in love with him, her little thirteen-year-old self admiring and loving her killer hero.

"So you could what?" He has turned his voice into something soft, yielding. Another trick, another illusion. He is the master of mind-fucking.

She doesn't dare tell him the sad, sad truth. "So I could talk to you," she says instead, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Why?"

"Who killed him?" Kyra asks instead of answer his loaded question.

"Don't know," he responds almost sullenly.

Kyra's mouth tightens with annoyance and her underlying grief. "That hit was only for a mil. It was just to get your attention. Imam didn't need to die for it. I don't know when the last time you looked at your hits, but there's a new one from an anonymous source for five mil. It's possible they're the ones who…" she doesn't bother to finish her sentence.

"Probably," he agrees, and then adds, a startling twist, "I'll help."

"What?" Kyra backs up a step, questioningly.

"You're gonna track 'em down, torture 'em, and kill 'em," he recites, a perfect aim of a prediction.

"I am," she replies resolutely, "but how the hell are _you_ gonna help _me_?"

"Simple," he tells her with another uncanny smile, "I'm all you've got."

"Actually," she nods pensively, mockingly. "You're right. You can help me. I sell you, I get money and I get a way in. Two birds. One stone."

He snorts loudly. "Sometimes I forget you really are just a kid. You need someone on the inside, someone who can back you up if things don't go according to your plan. And they won't."

Now it's her turn to scoff. "And you think you're the one to be the mole. Thanks, but no thanks. I can find someone else to stab me in the back pretty easily."

"I'm all you've got," he echoes, smirking. "Think 'bout it. We got at least a coupla weeks before we get to Solarium Three. Or you could call them now. Tell them to meet you at UV 6, my territory."

Her mouth drops open before she can cover up her shock. "How'd you know the coordinates?"

He shrugs, not indulging in a verbal reply.

Kyra stares at him long and hard. "I need time to think about this. You haven't even given me one single reason to trust you. But I swear, with your help or not, I'm gonna find the bastards and I'm gonna kill them all."

He waits a beat before nonchalantly saying, "Sounds good to me."

(A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Keep them coming! Again, sorry about the short chapter, the next is longer, I promise.)


	7. Chapter Seven

Stalemate

Chapter Seven

Kyra gazes out at the stars, fiddling with the small knife. She keeps running scenarios in her head, but most of them end with her knifed in the back by either an anonymous killer or Riddick. Neither sounds remotely appealing.

Her stomach rumbles, breaking through her cluttered mind. She glances over at the clock, does a quick calculation and determines it's been almost twelve hours since she's eaten.

Her sigh is deafening in the quiet room. Her eyes twitch from lack of sleep, and she rubs them, trying to stay awake. But she's not superhuman, she can't stay awake for more than another twenty-four hours, if she's lucky.

Deciding to fix her stomach issue, Kyra finds the food hall and storage quickly, and uses the water reservoir and microwave to make strange purple pasta.

Hesitantly, she takes a bite of the pasta and its odd consistency, but it's not as bad as she originally thought.

Out of pity or faded friendship, Kyra makes another bowl for Riddick. It takes her another few minutes of sitting at the counter to even decide to give him the food.

When she enters the room, she notices he hasn't moved in over an hour since their last confrontation. His head is bowed, and she thinks he's sleeping.

"Wait."

Kyra spins around. "I thought you were asleep," she explains defensively. She holds up the second bowl as evidence, "I brought food."

"You're gonna have to feed me," he tells her, "Unless you wanna unchain me."

Kyra sets her dish down on a small metal table, and places the clean spoon in his bowl. Her steps are slow and cautious, and she takes her time.

Sitting on the hard floor, Kyra takes a spoonful of the pasta, raising it above the dish. As she moves the spoon to his mouth, she briefly wonders if he'll bite her fingers.

She likes her fingers, and doesn't really want to see them mangled or missing. She stops at his lips, the tip of the spoon touching them.

He opens his mouth and envelopes the spoon and then retracts, chewing slowly.

"More," He urges her, jerking his chin to the bowl.

"Here," this time she shoves the spoon in his mouth quickly, sloshing the thick soup-like substance.

After swallowing, he chuckles. "I'm not gonna kill you, Jack. And I'm not gonna bite you. Unless you ask nice."

Rolling her eyes, Kyra holds up another spoonful. "Fuck off. And it's Kyra."

He nods sagely. "Right." He chews and swallows again. "You make a decision yet?"

She scowls vividly. "No. See, I don't really like trusting people who try to kill me." She jams the spoon in his mouth again.

This time, instead of pulling back, Riddick engulfs part of her hand, his tongue swiping the pad of her thumb.

Yanking her hand away, Kyra drops the spoon, and it clatters loudly on the metal grating. "What the fuck?" She rasps, the bowl tipping out of her palm.

"Didn't bite, did I?" He challenges innocuously.

Kyra exhales and picks up the spoon and bowl, setting it in front of her. She rises to her knees and wipes her hand on her pants roughly. He is playing her, as usual. Trying to test her resistance and goad her responses.

Because if he knows enough, he can take her apart effortlessly.

"Why do you really want to help me?" She asks point-blank. This little skirmish of a dance is wearing her down, and she wants the cold, hard truth. Even if it hurts.

"I'm all about saving the world from evil bastards. For the puppies and Christmas, obviously," he derides, keeping a straight face save for a tell-tale twist of his lips.

"Stop it," Kyra demands angrily, "Do you think this a game?"

Then he gives her his most honest answer, "Not for you."

Kyra sighs, standing up. "This whole idea is stupid. I can't trust you! You're a killer. You killed before the crash, and I know you didn't stop there. Maybe I could have justified it five years ago, but now…You're just a fuckin' dog, Riddick. A dog that needs to be put down."

A tinny snap cracks loudly and he lunges at her, slamming her into the doorjamb painfully. An involuntary gasp escapes from her as his arm jams between her legs, lifting her up, and her back scrapes the metal frame.

The ease of his attack and the timing tickles her mind. "You knew," she manages, even with his hand around her throat. Again.

He knows exactly what she means. "Of course I did."

Her breathing comes in jagged pants, and she shifts uncomfortably, her feet swinging uselessly. His eyes are still closed, and for the first time Kyra wonders how powerful he really is. She wonders if all everyone has ever seen is only a glimpse, a mere flicker of what he can really do.

"I am a killer, can't deny that," he hisses in her ear, "but what does that make you, Jack?"

Her stomach clenches and her heart pounds. "What I do," she tells him, her voice tight, "is a thousand kilometers apart from what you do, Riddick."

Except there is really only a thin line, a hairsbreadth of a difference between them. She's teetering on the edge, and it's only a matter of time before she falls.

And They both know it.

"You may not trust me, but what've ya got to lose?" He pushes her, the last straw on camel's back.

He's right. She's lost any semblance of friendship or family. She doesn't have anyone else but him. A sick and twisted fairytale—just her, Riddick and endless black space.

And that's the bitter, cold truth that freezes her to the bone.

Something wet prickles her cheek and she moves to wipe the offending moisture away, but his hand catches hers first.

"There's something dripping on my face," she explains irritably.

He releases her suddenly, and she has to catch herself from falling to her knees. Quickly, Kyra rubs at her face, leaving red patches behind.

If he has known the whole time, she thinks, watching him. If he has known that he could simply snap the metal, then why didn't he hurt or kill her when he had the chance? Why play the stupid mind games? Why even bother letting her go this far?

"Are you crying?" He asks with a hint of incredulity as he backs away, giving her room to move.

She snorts. "Funny," she retorts, "but no. There's oil or moisture collecting on the door. I should check that out, before it does any damage."

"Not gonna try and chain me back again?" He questions, tilting his head, hands folded cross his muscled chest.

"You'll just get out anyway," she replies dryly. Reaching into the deep pocket of her worn cargo pants, she pulls out his goggles. "Here." She can't trust his reasons, she figures, but she knows he won't kill her.

At least, not yet. And it's a chance she'll have to take.

"Stay here, and bequiet," she tells him before going into the control room.

With quick, efficient movements, Kyra punches in the number sequence she has now committed to memory.

In the small screen, a woman with cherry-red hair greets her. "Hello. Please state your identification."

"Name's Kyra Smith," she says clearly, "And I have Richard B. Riddick. Bring the money and meet me on UV 6, station three."

(A/N: yay, longer chapter! Thanks to everyone for their reviews and I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'll try and update as soon as I can)


	8. Chapter Eight

Stalemate

Chapter Eight

The woman's eyebrows arch. "Excuse me, _you_ have Riddick?"

Kyra tilts her chin up defiantly. "Did I stutter?"

The redhead regains her composure. "Of course not," she gives her a saccharine smile. "If you don't mind, we'd like evidence, please."

Shrugging, Kyra agrees, "One second." She walks back into the other room where Riddick is already ready. His thick arms are encased in metal chains and his goggles are gone.

"Stay quiet," She whispers, reminding him again. They can't afford any slip-ups. If this goes according to plan, the rest will, or should, fall in place.

He nods, holding out his chained hands, a soundless gesture to pull him back into the console room. She does so, carefully keeping her face a blank canvas.

"Here," she announces, roughly shoving him to the screen. He even stumbles a little, playing the helpless chained up killer they want.

The woman's dark gaze pursues him with obvious interest. "Richard B. Riddick. We've waited a long time for you. Years, in fact. Who knew all it took was a little girl to capture you?"

He doesn't answer and Kyra feels a spark of pride and relief. If it were her in this situation, she would have snapped at the first word.

Redhead's gaze shifts back to Kyra, her excitement retreating. "How soon can you get there?"

"A month," Kyra responds, "Six weeks tops."

Her nose twitches in distaste. "I suppose that will have to do. We'll be in touch." And with one last look at Riddick, the screen flickers blank.

They stand there for a moment, frozen icicles. It's started, Kyra thinks, and there's no turning back now. "We need rules," she announces firmly.

"Rules?" He echoes disdainfully.

She hates them as much as he does, but it'll keep her sane for the long, long month ahead. "One," she continues, "no killing each other." It's flippant, tossed out with an air of confidence, but she's deadly serious.

"Two, you stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours. Three, don't go into the control room—"

"This is my ship, kid," he tells her with a smoldering fury in his voice.

Kyra gives him a sarcastic look, crossing her arms.

"Well," he amends, "I stole it. Means I give the rules around here." He undoes the shackles as if proving a point.

'You're supposed to be my captive," Kyra counters, "You in the control room is kinda suspicious."

He looks testy and annoyed. His fists tighten then release more than once.

Watching this, Kyra ask pointedly, "Second thoughts?"

The look he gives her even with his eyes closed is enough of an answer. He is committed. To what exactly, she still has doubts about.

Reaching into his pocket, Riddick pulls out his goggles, placing them on. In that instant, any traces of vulnerability dissipate. He is his calm, deadly self again. A panther in a human jungle.

He walks out and Kyra follows, trailing after him with reluctance. He goes through the mess to where the rooms are located.

Kyra has only touched this area briefly when she went through to memorize the layout. Sleep seems foreign to her, and the concept of a bed and comforter is luxurious.

"Two rooms, one bathroom," he tells her. "I'll take the one on the right."

"Then I'll be here," Kyra says, gesturing to the other door. It is a redundant statement, but she can't think of anything else to say.

She wonders, once again, if she has lost her mind. This elaborate plan will kill them both, she thinks skeptically.

"Tired?" Riddick asks.

Kyra shrugs, unwilling to give him an answer. Don't want to lie, but can't be weak either. She hates these kinds of quandaries. They piss her off, make her want to punch something. Hard.

Riddick stares at her and then his hands falls to his door, grasping the doorknob. He opens it, nods once at her, and then shuts it. There is an audible sound of a lock and then silence.

Kyra returns to her bag before entering her room and closing the door. She doesn't bother changing her clothes, just curls up on the bed.

Her knees touch her chest, her chin on her knees. Inch by inch, she melts a little more of her stress away, leaving her boneless.

Inhale, exhale.

She's tired, exhausted and ready to sleep for hours. Yet she stays in her fetal position, eyes open. It's like she will never fall asleep again, and maybe she won't.

The only thing she can do is listen to the sound of her breathing and scrutinize every plan inside her head, searching for the faults she knows will always be there.


	9. Chapter Nine

Stalemate

Chapter Nine

Kyra is sitting in one of the bolted chairs, shoulders slumped, staring off into the distance. Sleep eluded her last night. She managed fitful dozes and nightmares, and now deep circles rim her eyes and her limbs feel heavy.

In front of her is a now-cold bowl of oatmeal substance. It smells of artificial oats and sugar with a dash of possibly real cinnamon. In any other circumstance, it would be gone in a second.

As she sits, she listens to the audible sounds of Riddick shuffling around outside of the mess. It sounds as if he is traipsing between his room and the room where he was tied up, but she can't be sure. He's being loud on purpose, though. Letting her know…well, she's not sure yet.

A month. At least.

She still has trouble wrapping her mind around this colossal idea. This terrifying, yes she'll admit it, idea.

Kyra wonders if she won't sleep until she leaves. And even then she'll be plagued with a small dose of fear. Fear of him dropping his word like a hot pan and killing her quick.

Not fear, she tells herself firmly. Caution, it's always caution.

"You gonna finish that?"

She straightens, turning to face him. "No, it's congealed now. There's more in the food storage."

He looks pleased as he finds another packet and sets out to make it. He seems so casual, like their buddies or lovers setting out for a nice trip through the galaxy.

The microwave beeps three times, and he pulls out a steaming bowl. Sitting across from her, he digs in, unhindered by the heat.

She deigns to just watching him enjoy his food with a spark of irrational jealousy.

Finishing in record time, he stands up again and, picks up his bowl, dropping it in the sink. It clatters loudly, and he roughly scrubs at any residue oatmeal before shuffling it in the little dish washer.

He is gone before she can even form the words for her question: What now?

Kyra stands up to put her own dish away and is faintly disgusted by the thick, cold oatmeal stubbornly sticking to bowl. Frustrated, she just lets it sit the sink full of hot water. That's artificial space food for you, she thinks with annoyance.

She drifts to the social area of the room with bolted couches that remind her of a college dormitory. A book, split at the spine and face down, sits on the tiny wood grain table. She picks it up, leafing through it.

Setting it down, she picks up the worn magazine instead, reading the latest fashions from a year ago. It doesn't take her long to conclude that her own clothes are sorely out of style.

She can again hear noises, a soft thumps at a rapid pace. Her ears perk, and she tosses the magazine aside. With determination, Kyra gets up and walks to the former "prison" room. She can now see what Riddick has been doing all morning.

A makeshift gym is now installed. There are weights in one corner made out of scraps of metal and a punching bag constructed from a large stuffed sheet suspended from the ceiling. It is efficient and simple.

Kyra watches, half-hidden behind the doorframe, his naked back glossy with sweat in just a half hour. His long muscles flex and twist as he pummels the bag. Entranced, Krya almost forgets words.

"Did you do all this?" She finally asks, breaking his rhythm. It's a stupid question, but she is always full of stupid and unnecessary questions around him.

Riddick stops, his taped hand resting on the bag to stop it from moving. He doesn't look at her. "Get out."

"Fine," she mumbles, and leaves quickly, like she is a marionette and he has the strings. Like she is a dog with its tail between her legs. It's pathetic and weak and she hates herself for it.

Anger startles her body, making her restless. Her fury trembles in her muscles and bones. Her teeth are clenched tight, and she can't believe she practically rolled over, belly side up, for him.

In her room, she dukes it out with her pillow, a soft substitute. Her anger surges after each hit, and she is blinded searing red.

She hates this fucked up situation.

_Punch._

She hates that she cares for Imam, even in his death.

_Punch._

She hates Riddick with his smug superiority and evasive answers.

_Punch._

But most of all, she hates the delicious zing that shuddered down to her core at the sight of Riddick's slick, bare back.

_Punch. Punch. Punch._


	10. Chapter Ten

Stalemate

Chapter 10

Three days.

Three Earth-norm days of existing in parallel universes, separate bubbles in the ship. It has been a series of misses and near-hits. She sometimes would spot him as he turned a corner or a glimpse of his shiny goggles as she left the mess.

It's strange and not all together pleasant. Like there's a ghost on the ship she can't quite see, but she knows is there.

Frowning, Kyra slides a comb through her hair. The previous owners, or technically current owners without their ship, had left nice toiletries behind.

After washing her hair with actual conditioner, her unruly snarls now melt under the fine teeth of the comb.

With all the excess time she now has, Kyra spends it reading or simply staring off in space. At first, it seemed great, like a vacation of sorts.

But now that restless feeling vibrates deep in her bones, and she's not sure how she will last much longer in the absolute silence.

As much as she hates to admit it, even talking to Riddick holds an appeal rather than the dead silence. In any other time or place, she would have badgered someone into talking to her.

But this situation…she hates how out of control she feels. She isn't this weakling, she never has been.

Her frown deepens and she sets the comb down and yanks her hair back into a quick bun fastened securely.

She can't take at least another three weeks of this, no one sane can.

So if he insists on remaining a ghost, she'll just have to provoke him. It's a stupid, rash plan, but she likes it.

And she hasn't had a good fight in a long time.

She quickly puts on her favorite fitted pants and shirt and slips a couple of knives in, just in case. She stares down at the sleek metal gun, contemplating it, but she shrugs it off.

If she brings the gun, she's suggesting something more serious than a little fight.

A familiar rush curls in her stomach, and she grins. Her feet are encased in slim sneakers that she uses when working out, and they hardly make a sound as she walks to the make-shift gym.

Boldly, Kyra saunters into the room and leans against the metal wall, arms crossed.

"Thought I told you to stay out."

His intimidation is like a wet paper towel, and she retorts, "Thought I told you you're just a payday."

Riddick clearly eyes her stance, her ready muscles. She keeps her chin high and her eyes flinty cold. He stalks closer, his goggles flashing as he looms over her.

"Do you know what you're doin'?"

Her answer is her fist hurling into his face.

He backhands her in response, and Kyra's head snaps to the side. A flying kick hits his jaw, another to his neck. He gives her a sucker punch to the stomach and a kick to her thigh in return.

It doesn't take long for their series of blows-for-blows to become more complex, a dance of intricate kicks and punches leaving them bruised and heady with the rush of adrenaline.

Kyra rolls away from his kick and jams her own foot into his side. With ease, he captures her legs and hoists her up high before flinging her body into the harsh metal bumps of the wall.

Her body, battered with bruises and small cuts, quivers as she holds herself up. Her knees buckle a little when she tries to pull away from the support. "You're an asshole."

"Tell me somethin' new, Jack." They circle each other now, and it pisses her off that he is being a damn gentleman, waiting for her to strike.

"It's Kyra," she tells him, "and stop goin' easy on me. Fucking fight me, Riddick." She says it to egg him on, and she is surprised by the approval that seems to flit across his face, if only for a moment.

Then he leaps forward, grabbing her shoulder and slamming her back into the detestable wall. She crumples to floor and uses the opportunity to snatch a hidden blade from her calf. Kyra swings out her arm, intent on slashing his middle, but instead she hits air.

A fucking screw up.

Riddick hauls her back up by her neck, and she groans painfully. His other hand squeezes her wrist until her hand goes slack and the knife fumbles from her fingers.

But instead of his fist, his mouth attacks her. Rough and angry, his lips try to devour her own, almost to the point of bruising.

A fire in her belly and in her chest burns as he continues. She slides her hand around his neck, urging him closer, struggling to fuse them together. But even in her haze of lust, she finds her second blade, tucked in at the base of her spine.

He nips her lip, and then releases her too fast, and she has to steady herself. As he walks away, Kyra runs her hand along the tiny blade before hurling it, a perfect aim.

It lodges in his right shoulder, and he stops, reaching for the hilt. If it hurt, he didn't show it. Pulling it out, Riddick examines the scarlet smeared metal.

"Not bad."

(A/N: sorrry for the wait, I'm reeallyyy busy right now, but I'll try and update at least once a week. thanks for the reviews!)


	11. Chapter Eleven

Stalemate

Chapter Eleven

Her shirt is sticking to her skin, sweat sliding down her face and neck. She revels in the sweat and the burn in her muscles as she pounds the now sagging make-shift punching bag. With a final snap of her leg, Kyra sends the punching bag swerving precariously.

It's been twenty-four hours since Kyra had stormed into this same room and challenged Riddick to a fight.

She still isn't sure if she has won or lost. It isn't even that simple, that black and white, but she's in the gym room now, which means she didn't completely have her ass handed to her.

And that kiss.

Kyra frowns, panting as she leans against the wall, sliding down. If you could even call it a kiss, she thinks with a burst of annoyance.

It might have been a punch to her lips considering the force he used, nearly devouring her mouth. It wasn't a nice kiss, the kind she thinks that young girls probably get on their sweet sixteenth. Actually, on her sixteenth, she got tipsy with a bounty in a bar before killing him for money.

So her track record of kisses and boyfriends is shoddy at best, but she knows that feeling, that electric sensation that gallops through her blood making her lust for more.

In her confusion, she doesn't notice Riddick entering the gym until he bends down to pick up a weight while simultaneously looking over at her pooled on the floor.

"I'm done," she announces and hoists herself up and exits with as much dignity as possible.

She spends the next twenty minutes soaking in the shower and scrubbing her hair viciously. She felt like a childish school girl waiting for the star quarterback to talk to her. Wrinkling her nose at the analogy, she silently berates herself for watching the ridiculous teen soap opera in the control room.

Kyra wraps the towel material around her and stares at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair is already starting to snarl, and the teeth of the brush stick at the ends of her hair.

Setting down the brush, she eyes her face warily. It's been a long time she has scrutinized her features, and she still struggles with the results. She thinks of herself as too delicate for her job. Her dirty blonde hair and slender figure. Her ski-jump nose paired with large blue-green eyes.

But she knows her muscles are tuned for her work. And more importantly, she's good at it. She's more successful than half of the male mercs who have been doing the job long before she was born.

Kyra wonders why she's willing to risk it all for Riddick.

And then, with a powerful yank of her brush, she knows she'd rather not answer that question.

A knock startles her and her brush clatters to the floor.

"Jesus," she mutters, and then loudly, "What?"

"She's on the comm."

Kyra flies into a tornado of throwing her clothes on and racing out of the bathroom.

"Did you answer?" She asks tersely, not looking at him.

"No, recognized the number," Riddick replies as the halted outside the room.

"Stay here," Kyra commands, and then slides into the control room, flicking the screen on.

"Oh. You're still alive," the redhead greets, her phony smile stretching over perfect white teeth.

Kyra crosses her arms, studying the screen with a hard look. "Why wouldn't I be? He's not that difficult."

A laugh spills from her red lips. "He's Riddick. So unless you keep him under with horse tranquilizers, I'm sure he's a great inconvenience. This is why I am offering you a chance to drop him at our station on Gray."

Gray is only two weeks out, but it's a different direction than the UV system. The planet's name reflects its thick clouds and constant downpour. Kyra has been there once and doesn't need a repeat. Shaking her head, Kyra tells her, "No thanks. We'll stick with our original plan."

"Suit yourself," the woman shrugs a little in the screen. "I'll contact you in a couple of weeks. Just to make sure you're still alive and well."

"Not necessary," Kyra replies shortly. "By the way, do you have a name? I'd hate to call and ask for 'the woman with really fake red hair'."

The woman's dark eyes narrow into twin pieces of icy coal. "I'm the only one who answers this sequence." And with a small flicker of the screen, she was gone.

Riddick stands in the doorway. "Take it you don't like her."

Kyra turns with a scoff. "What's to like? She's a bitch and I'm pretty sure she suspects something." She adds with a mumble, "I know I would."

Riddick snatches her arm as she brushes past. His hand curls entirely around her bicep. "Horse tranquilizers?"

Kyra wrenches her arm away, ignoring the lingering pain. "Don't tempt me."

A laugh, more genuine than Kyra has ever heard from him, echoes in the ship. "Don't bother. They don't work that well anyway."

(A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating. I was sick, then had surgery, then was sick again. Really annoying. I'm writting again but be patient, it'll take me a while to get going again. Hope you enjoyed the chapter!)


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